


Run Away With Me

by orphan_account



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, pricefield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:35:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5023123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You kiss her as deeply as you can, a light blossoming in your chest as bright as the hibiscus flowers painted on your arm. Her hand tangles in your blue locks, interweaving between the strands of hair like the green vines that twist and turn with the red ribbon that trails down your arm.</p><p>---</p><p>Based off of Carly Rae Jepsen's song, 'Run Away With Me.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run Away With Me

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS UNBETA'D I'M SORRY FOR FLOW DISCONTINUITIES but thank you Carly Rae Jepsen for "Run Away With Me" b/c that song was the inspo for this entire fic lol
> 
> and thanks to explosionshark for pointing out this song lOL

There's a buildup inside your chest, a tightness that makes you breathless and unthinking.

You thought weed made you lighter, let you fly higher - but it's only now as your feet pound against the gray tiles of the airport hallway and the walls blur around you that you realize that smoking only ever emptied you out, made you nothing in a world that thought you were nothing.

But Max makes you feel like you're everything, and as the two of you dodge past startled bystanders, you grip the plane ticket in your hand even tighter, wondering if this is what it's like to really be on cloud nine.

The white fluorescent lights above you reflect on the metal of the escalators, and a burst of eagerness rushes through you; you turn to see Max laughing, telling you that she knows that look in your face, and the stone-gray walls and floor around you turn to shining silver as the world becomes a little more valuable, a little more worth it.

The two of you run up the down escalator, giggling like when you two used to sneak up the creaky staircase up to your room.

You're both panting and breathing hard when you make it to the top. She's red, flushed, her brown hair a mess, but she's smiling at you, and now you know how she feels when she wants to stop to take a picture of something.

Your hand reaches for your phone.

* * *

You lean closer over her, watch the plane lift off from the ground, see the gray asphalt of the runway shrink below you. Her hand hasn't left yours, and she's excited, bubbling with energy as she talks about all the places the two of you are going to go and the things you're going to do and -

You kiss her as deeply as you can, a light blossoming in your chest as bright as the hibiscus flowers painted on your arm. Her hand tangles in your blue locks, interweaving between the strands of hair like the green vines that twist and turn with the red ribbon that trails down your arm.

You wonder if she'll ever know how thankful you are for her, how much she means to you.

She brought you from hell all the way to heaven.

She opened the prison walls encasing your heart, set you free, let you soar and fly like the blue butterflies that flutter at the tips of your tattoo.

* * *

She curls up and leans against your shoulder, yawning as the sun sets below the clouds, making a kingdom of gold and orange and red across the white sea rolling beneath you.

You reach a hand out and shut the window, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as you listen to the flight attendant murmur the time to Paris.

Her hand is relaxed and loose around your own, and her chest rises and falls with a tempo as gentle and slow as the song she played for you on her guitar on your twenty-first birthday, each breath leaving her lips a soft note of comfort.

You feel your hand reaching for your phone again, and you take it out and start a video, watch yourself in the screen as you whisper words; the lights in the cabin dim around you, and the lone light shining above you casts a blanket of gold light about her. She shivers, and you reach down into your bag to put your jacket around her.

Your mom and Max's parents had insisted that they get updates on your whereabouts every now and then...

And if Max can have photos, you can have video.

You angle the camera like you're going to take a selfie, make sure the screen shows both you and her, and you smile as you see and feel her curl up a little closer to you.

* * *

The two of you toss your luggage on a cart, and for good measure, you toss her in the cart too as you speed down the narrow corridors of the airport, laughing as you dig your heels into the bottom rack as the cart zooms past shocked travelers.

She thinks you're going too fast - as usual - but she giggles when she leans forward and presses her lips to yours.

You almost forget that your cart's rocketing towards a wall; when you pull away from her, you yelp and slam your feet onto the ground, skidding to a stop as Max's laughter fills your ears and soul.

* * *

Your camera's in your hand as you watch her gaze in awe at the glass pyramid rising high above you; Max snaps a photo, and you're thankful you get to record the way she turns to you, her lips slightly parted with wonder.

She points out the grand paintings that stretch across entire walls, breathless as she leans as close as she can. The art museum is a clusterfuck of bodies and voices, but as you hold your phone in one hand, she pulls you forward with the other, guiding you through the crowds and to the things she finds most beautiful.

Nothing's as beautiful as her, though.

* * *

Doesn't matter that you're both older. You still claim to be the best pillow fighter in the world, and of course, she disagrees.

She laughs as she manages to knock you off the bed with an expert throw of her pillow, and you land on your ass, grumbling about how she cheated, how she caught you off guard, how you had something in your eye and couldn't see.

Max hops off the bed, straddles your waist and pulls up on your t-shirt so that she can give you a kiss that might heal your pride.

Your hands trail down her back, and she shivers against you as she holds your face in her hands. When you tentatively slip your hands underneath her shirt, your fingers gently resting on her hips, she leans forward and gives you an even deeper kiss, sighing as you run your hands up her bare skin.

You don't think you mind losing the pillow fight this time.

* * *

When you wake up the next morning, you see that Max is sitting in a chair by the windowsill, sipping on a steaming mug held between both her hands. She's silhouetted by the morning sun, a white backdrop that leaves a highlight around her as she gazes out past the cluster of buildings and to the city skyline.

You managed to record a quick few seconds of her closing her eyes and leaning her head on the window, the thumb of her left hand tracing circles around the rim of her mug.

When you're done, you put your phone down and join her, giving a quick kiss to her cheek as you notice that she's wearing your oversized flannel shirt.

Her eyes don't open, but as you lean away, you see a small smile tugging at the edges of her lips.

* * *

Her scarf billows around her neck as the two of you see Paris sprawled out beneath you, and she reaches forward and hooks her fingers around the metal links of the fence, her mouth open in awe.

Heights had never been Max's thing, and she'd stayed close to your side as the two of you rode up the metal cage and up to the top of the tower. Her hand held onto yours so tightly that you do your best to rub calming circles across the back of hand.

But now as the world becomes yours, and the horizon doesn't seem so far away, she turns to you, her nose slightly pink from the chill that nips at your skin. She buries her face in your chest and wraps her arms around you, and warmth washes over you.

You wonder how much higher she'll bring you, because Max feels like the sun.

* * *

Today she's wearing one of your denim vests beneath your black and white flannel. She's taken to borrowing things from your wardrobe, turning your punk clothes to hipster attire.

But it's cute.

Her camera snaps another photo of the arching monument in front of you.

An angel and its wings, permanently sculpted into the stone, triumphantly blows a silent horn in celebration of victory.

It makes you think of the night that you'd managed to put an end to his schemes, to bring vengeance and justice to Rachel. You turn your gaze to the sky, watch a few wisps of white wander aimlessly across the infinite blue.

You feel Max tug on your arm and you look down to see her eyes bright and cheeks red from the cold breeze that brushes past you both. You remember that she's alive and here with you.

* * *

It's happened again, and she's half-scolding you as the two of you quickly tap down the staircase and towards the metro subway awaiting on the tracks.

You hurriedly take out your phone again, start recording as the two of you get to the platform just as the subway pulls away.

She rolls her eyes again at you recording again, but she's pushed into you by the rush of air as another subway comes speeding down the tracks. Bits of paper and trash fly up around the both of you, and you feel her put her arms around you again.

She sighs, pressing a kiss to your neck as she murmurs something about waiting for the next train.

The cold night air from the outside sinks down the steps and into the station, and you take off your beanie and tug it down over her head.

When she peeks up at you from beneath her short bangs, her hands drift around to your sides, gripping the edges of your sweater. It's in the way she bites her lip, the way she tilts her head just a little, the way her freckles are a constellation of beauty across her face that makes you lean down and kiss her over and over.

You miss the subway again.

* * *

She shuts the lock on the small space available in the fence, and you both take a step away, admiring your shitty handiwork etched in the face of the small, golden lock sticking out amongst the sea of metal.

_Max + Chloe_

Just like old times.

She holds the key in her hand, and you know what she's going to do before she does it; you take out your phone and start recording as she snaps a picture of the key lying in the palm of her hand.

You record her standing at the edge of the fence, her hair blowing lightly past her face, a look of pensiveness passing over her eyes as she gazes out to the river rushing below them.

She tosses the key, and you follow its arc as it splashes into the water.

* * *

You're both heading back to the hotel after a night of adventuring in the streets of Paris, and the neon lights and street lights lining the roads makes you feel giddy and free.

Brave, you grab her hand and tug her out into the middle of the street, letting out a carefree laugh at her indignant protests.

Sure, the music from the nearby club isn't the most romantic, but it's enough for you to turn her around and hold both her hands in yours, and now she's talking about how she knows that grin on your face.

It takes you a bit, you have to tap and strut around her for a moment or two, but then she's dancing with you, and you hear from her laugh that she's starting to let go too.

You twirl her around, then pick her up and spin her around again. You don't know why you find the grimy streets of the city to be romantic, but somehow it is, and somehow she thinks it is too, because she standing on her tiptoes to kiss you again.

* * *

When the two of you go shopping, it's just like when you were kids - the two of you running through the mall, tossing clothes at each other for the other try, wanting to one up the other and find the most ridiculous outfit possible.

You're both standing in front of a mirror, and she takes off the paperboy cap on your head, places it on her own, and then plants a top hat back on yours.

You curl your thumb and index finger, making an imaginary monocle over your left eye while you make a poor imitation of a British accent.

As she tries to suppress the giggles that shake her chest, she pulls a black marker from her bag and draws a mustache on the mirror; following her lead, you let her snap a picture of you reflected back as a charming punk in a top hat and a mustache.

You manage to record her throwing her head back and bursting out into laughter, her entire body shaking as she leans forward, hands on her knees, breathless.

If you could wish for something, it'd be for Max to be without worry, without pain, to live life to its fullest and to love life for all its joys.

* * *

Max shifts the seat belt crossing her chest before crossing her arms, gazing out the window. A sea of taxis and busses and cars stutter and stop around you, honks filling the air as pedestrians jaywalk across the street.

The neon lights and giant glowing signs rising around the buildings nearby cast her face in a myriad of colors, red and white and green and blue. A flicker of pink shines across a strand of her hair, and you wonder if she'll ever let you dye her hair.

Then again, you notice as the collar of her jacket slips down, baring her collarbone for a split second, you remember she got a blue butterfly for you.

* * *

There's barely anyone on the seats for the train down to Versailles, so Max sprawls out across two seats as you throw yourself down in the seats just opposite.

You take out your phone and record again, and she pulls your black jacket around her shoulders as she leans her back against the window. For a moment, you watch the city blur past, turning into fields of green and small houses resting amongst a sea of flowers and plants.

Eventually, she asks you if you're glad to get out of the city, with its bustling chaos of traffic and clusters of crowds and mobs.

You're glad you got to record the blush that comes across her cheeks when you tell her you're happy just being with her.

* * *

The fresh and open air of the palace grounds and gardens is enough for Max to go on a photo spree, and soon enough she has a ton of hipster-y close up shots of flowers and golden gates and white marble sculptures and shit.

But as she stands near a fountain, its bursts of water sparkling and shining in the sun overhead, you see the peace that rests lightly on her shoulders, and you look up to see white doves soaring overhead.

You move to stand behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist and pressing your face into her shoulder. Without a word, she reaches up and tangles her hand in your hair.

* * *

The morning sun shines rays of golden light into the room, and you notice the dust motes in the air lazily drifting from light to shadow and back again.

She's sitting on the wide window sill, wearing one of your flannels. It's unbuttoned, and you catch the burst of blue near her neck, the butterfly forever frozen in time on her skin.

In her hands rests her camera, and as you sit up in bed, you see a few photos on the ground, the white frames almost glowing against the dark wood.

She's never slept well after what happened. You would wake in the middle of the night to Max's sobs, Max's hands scratching and pushing and fighting against someone long gone.

But something's different, now that they're both a long way away from where it all happened.

You get up, gently ease your hand next to hers. She looks away from the green fields rolling ahead outside the window, puts her camera down, and then leans up and kisses you.

When you break the kiss, you pick her up in your arms and bring her back to the bed.

Barely anyone could touch her after what had happened. She'd kicked and screamed when the men dressed in white had tried to bring her to white hallways filled with the beeping of monitors and doctors wearing latex gloves; it was only when you'd fought through the lines of policemen and threw your arms around her that she'd managed to stifle her sobs and stop her struggling.

She relaxes into your touch, sighing your name when you leave a trail of kisses down from her neck to the center of her chest; you hear her heartbeat, light and fluttering, like the whirr of the shutter of her camera.

When she's gasping and tangling a hand in your hair, the other tightly gripping the sheets, it's when you hope you can bring her happiness in and out of bed.

* * *

The two of you are back in the city, and you're grinning as you walk backward down the hallway.

She rolls her eyes, used to you having surprises awaiting her.

You get up to a staircase, laugh as you hustle upstairs, two steps at a time - Max struggles to keep up, scolding you for going too fast, but she's grinning up at you as you throw open the door at the top level.

She knows you're not allowed to be up here during the day, let alone at night, but even she lets loose sometimes. And you always know when.

When she takes a step out onto the roof of your hotel, she gasps, clapping both hands to her mouth as she gazes at your handiwork. She slowly walks forward, eyes moving about the plants and flowers that line the roof.

A long string of lights outline your small rooftop eden, and a bottle of champagne resting in a bucket of ice awaits her on the table in the center.

Your last day here, you made sure to make it the best.

When your champagne glasses clink against each other, you watch her out of the corner of her eye. Your phone's precariously balanced in the branches of the bush to your right, and you hope you got the view right.

She wasn't expecting you to do it here - she's so oblivious sometimes - and she claps her hands to her mouth again as you get down on one knee.

The ring glistens and gleams in the warm glow from the lights hanging around you, but nothing's as bright as the tears that come to her eyes, the laughter that escapes her lips, the smile that shines on her face as she says yes.

When her left hand interlaces with yours, you feel the ring pressing against your fingers as you kiss her, give her everything you are, let yourself become hers.

She can't rewind anymore, but you know you'll always find time to be with her.


End file.
